


Keep Me High

by thinkzebrasfirst



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, No consent issues, Rimming, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7514558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkzebrasfirst/pseuds/thinkzebrasfirst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s the flower of Jämtland.”  Patric breathes out in sudden realization. He claps Conor on the knee and shakes it and Conor can’t help the moan that escapes him.  Patric removes his hand, his face sheepish, and apologizes.  “It’s Henrik’s version of a joke.  Harmless, well relatively harmless.”  </p>
<p>“So you touch the flower and that makes you want to fuck everything?”  Matt’s bluntness is normally a little annoying, but right now it’s a godsend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me High

**Author's Note:**

> I want to clarify re: the sex pollen trope, there's no actual sex with anyone while he's ~under the influence~. There are hints/fantasies of it but nothing more.

Patric scores the game winner in overtime and Conor’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. It was a combination of hard work, a little flash, and sudden exuberance that was so quintessentially Patric that it made Conor’s heart ache. The whole team rushes him and Pittsburgh is alive and screaming out just for Patric, Conor feels a stab of jealousy and he’s not sure why. 

They tumble off the ice and down the hallway, whooping and slapping each other on the back. They shouldn’t have won this game really, Conor was half expecting a loss, but Patric, he just wouldn’t let that happen. They tug off their gear, snippets of Patric’s postgame interview floating through among the cheers and the sounds of tape ripping off fabric. 

Conor breathes deeply, watching Murray flip the gladiator’s helmet from hand to hand. Patric comes stomping in and all the cheers start up again, he revels in them, a broad smile forming easily on his face. 

It’s a tradition that the best player of the night gets the gladiator helmet and his pick of his teammates. He can still feel the awkwardness of that first real conversation he had with Sid, where Sid explained the rules. 1. You can say no and no one will think any less of you. 2. Don’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. 3. Always communicate with your partner. Sid added or partners as an afterthought but a shiver went through Conor at the thought of it. He missed the rest of the rules. 

Some guys didn’t participate, some rights got traded or gambled away, some were unabashed in what they wanted and took their reward right there in front of everyone. It was good for team bonding, gave guys some extra motivation to be the hero.

Conor feels a funny thrill in his stomach as Murray gives the helmet to Patric. He looks around the room at everyone’s faces, a clear mixture of happiness and exhaustion, as some guys start shifting to make a break for the trainers room before the reporters arrive. 

Conor likes to play a game, trying to guess who his teammates will pick. He’s right a lot of the time because hockey players are creatures of habit. Sid and Geno normally pick each other, although sometimes when Sid wins, Geno picks for him. Phil never used to pick anyone, just shyly raising the helmet in thanks and placing it in his own locker, but last time he picked Carl and surprised everyone. The rookies always picked each other, the party spilling out to their hotel rooms, the hotel staff learned not to book rooms near theirs. Patric had a preference for goalies, maybe trying to balance the scales to make up for terrorizing opposing goalies every night. 

Conor keeps his head down, like normal, stripping off his gear methodically, ducking his head to hide any traces of disappointment when Patric places the helmet on Marc’s head. Marc beams at him. It’s a kind gesture from Patric, it’ll be good for Marc to feel useful to the team again. 

He strips off his gear and heads to the showers and tries not to think of Patric’s smile as Marc leads him out of the room. Patric’s gone through most of the team by now, sometimes more than once, but never Conor. He stopped hoping when Patric picked every rookie but him, it’s fine. He’s been rejected his whole life, too short, too small, always the underdog. Patric is his friend, his teammate, and not his lover. It’s fine. 

He chases Tom down and bums a ride back to the hotel when Matt’s media session runs over late, again. Matt will get over it. 

 

//

There are two things Conor notices when he wakes, one, the sunlight streaming through his window is unbearable, and he makes a mental note to buy blackout curtains. Two, he’s so hard he’s aching, and he’s relatively certain that if he doesn’t come soon he’ll die or at least have to go to the hospital. 

He scrambles for his bedside table, everything on top clattering to the floor. He fumbles with his lube in one hand and shoves his hand down his briefs with the other. He takes ahold of himself and strokes firmly a few times before he shudders and comes. Come spurts across sheets and pools on his stomach but there’s not the usual relief that follows. He’s sticky with it and breathless, throwing a pillow to muffle the sound of his phone dinging somewhere on the floor. 

He waits, hoping his body is lying to him but minutes after his cock softens it starts to harden again. He lets out a groan as he palms himself, that familiar urge to come is tinged with desperation. He comes three more times, his dick is sore but tears of relief well up in his eyes when he doesn’t get hard again. His pulse is thundering through his ears, like a loud insistent knocking. He slowly exhales, breath hitching. He shuts his eyes and the tears finally fall, streaking across his face.

There’s something wrong with him. He doesn’t know what to do, how do you explain this and have someone take you seriously?

“Oh, shit.” 

Matt’s standing in the doorway, jaw dropped as he takes in the scene before him. The knocking noise hadn’t been in his own head after all, at least he wasn’t completely crazy. Matt shields his eyes while Conor scrambles to grab his comforter. The room loses it’s hazy feel and for the first time since he awoke, Conor feels like himself.

“Murrs, I think I’m sick.” he says weakly, his hand is still tacky with come, but whatever, Matt’s seen Conor look worse.

“Uh, sure, bud.” Matt’s got his head turned, fixated on the stain on the ceiling. “Kuhni and I were gonna see if you wanted to get lunch but, obviously you’re a little busy, so—.” 

He’s cut off when there’s a loud shout from the hallway as Tom barges in. “If I don’t get food soon I’m stealing all your beer.” Conor yanks his comforter even higher as Tom notices the lube on the bed and Conor slowly trying to yank his briefs up. “Jesus, Shearsy. Where was our invite to the party?” 

“What did you mean you think you’re sick?” Matt asks slowly. 

Conor kicks the lube off the bed and avoids Matt’s eyes. He doesn’t even know where to start, how do you explain you suddenly have the same sex drive as a teenager with a ten minute refractory period? 

“I, I can’t stop-.” He waves his hand around the room. Tom sits down on the bed and touches his forehead. A flare of arousal shoots through him and he tries not to squirm under Tom’s hand. 

“Murrs, he’s really hot.” Conor lets out a low moan that he hopes can pass off a symptom of sickness.

“Shearsy, where did the flowers come from?” Matt asks urgently. 

“I have no idea.” Conor thinks back, trying to remember when they arrived. They weren’t there when he went to sleep. Do hotel staffers come in your room if you’re asleep? That’s freaky, they shouldn’t be allowed to do that. His skin starts to warm up. Unless it was the hot concierge, Steve something, yeah, Steve could come in and—. 

“Distract him.” Murray says as he disappears into the bathroom. He comes back looking victorious and holding a trash bag, in which he promptly stuffs the orchids. The room gets a little clearer and Conor shakily takes a deep breath.

“Really, Murrs, you think the flowers are causing all this?” Tom says skeptically. Matt gives him a look and pulls out his phone, flicking at the screen with an anxious look on his face. He has a square of paper in his hand and if Conor squints he thinks he can make out the florist’s logo. 

Tom does what he’s told and pulls out his own phone. “Okay! Okay fine, all right Twitter...Oh! Here’s something good. Shearsy, did you know that a woman will base 55% of her initial impression of a man on his appearance, 38% on his style of speaking, and 7% on what he actually says.” Tom looks at him expectantly and Conor wants to laugh but the way Tom cocked his head when he said appearance was sweet, the faintest hint of his accent coming out. 

“Should we call Dumo?” Matt’s voice is higher than normal and Tom laughs. He’s beautiful when he laughs and Conor feels stupid for not noticing it before. 

“Uh, yeah, hey Dumo?” Tom says mimicking Matt’s voice, putting a finger on his bearded chin. “Shearsy’s dick is broken.” The beard makes him look older and Conor itches to reach out and touch it. He can almost feel it against his chin, the gentle rub of it as Tom trails down his stomach with kisses, the frantic scratch of it between cheeks as Tom makes him scream. 

Matt picks up an apple and throws it at Tom. He barely manages to duck behind a pillow before snagging the apple and taking a bite. “Oh, hey, maybe it was something you ate? Or somebody slipped some Viagra in your Gatorade.” He chews slowly, oblivious. Conor stares at his mouth, transfixed. 

Tom swallows, noticing Conor’s gaze. “Uh, you okay, bud?” 

Matt comes over and yanks Tom up by the hood on his sweatshirt. Tom squawks and juggles his apple, but he goes outside without further argument. Matt snaps his fingers in front of Conor’s face, snapping him out of his daydreams. 

“Hey, hey, earth to Conor.” Matt’s snapping his fingers again. “Okay, Google says the writing on this card is in Swedish. Sundqvist’s out with his girl so you get to pick who I call, because we need a grownup here, Shearsy. So, Horny or Hags?” 

Conor swallows roughly, squirming in his seat as he breathes out “Horny.” Matt doesn’t even crack a smile at the irony of the situation, he just steps outside to make the call. Conor resists for all of ten seconds before shoving his hands down his briefs. 

//

“It’s an orchid.” Patric says with a smile, lightly tracing the purple petals. He thinks for a moment and Conor can’t help but study him as he presses the flower to his lips. Conor wishes Patric would open his mouth, drag it along his plush lips, maybe he’d turn to Conor and do the same with his fingers. He can almost feel the wet heat of Patric’s mouth around his fingers, around his dick, steadily hardening again in his pants. Something soft pokes him on the side and Conor turns to see Matt surreptitiously pushing a pillow toward him. His cheeks warm up and Conor hopes he isn’t as bright red as he feels. It’s only been about twenty minutes but it’s too long, that itch starting to build up again. Thankfully, Patric is still fixated on the orchid to notice, murmuring to it quietly like he’s asking it to reveal its secrets. 

“It’s the flower of Jämtland.” He breathes out in sudden realization. He claps Conor on the knee and shakes it and Conor can’t help the moan that escapes him. Patric removes his hand, his face sheepish, and apologizes. “It’s Henrik’s version of a joke. Harmless, well relatively harmless.” 

“So you touch the flower and that makes you want to fuck everything?” Matt’s bluntness is normally a little annoying, but right now it’s a godsend. 

“No, it releases a fragrance, normally keyed to the person. Are you missing gear since the Rangers series?” Patric turns to him and a feeling of panic spikes through Conor. 

Matt pinches him lightly. “You said you were missing your jock, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Game 4, I think? I just assumed it’d gotten lost in the transition you know?” He’s definitely not staring at Patric’s fingers, thinking how good they’d feel inside of him. 

“That must be it. And not everything, Matt. It increases the sex drive for sure, but you don’t experience, uh, arousal, without liking the person before the drug.” A blush slowly forms on Patric’s cheeks. “Probably why he’s normal around you, Murrs. I’m surprised Henrik would stoop to this to be honest.” 

The sound of Patric’s voice fades out. Patric would look good on a romance cover novel, he thinks hysterically. He grips the pillow tightly, searching for an anchor to reality. Even so can barely stop from launching himself at Patric. Patric could hold him down he thinks, no, he knows. He’s taken his fair share of ribbing for staring in the room but never did he think Patric would look like that, ripped like he’s some sort of Swedish hockey god. 

It’s Matt that saves him, again, ushering Patric out of the room so they can call Lundqvist, have a goalie to goalie chat with him. He thinks Matt says they’ll be back in five minutes but everything in the room is muffled, like he’s underwater. 

He barely waits until Matt shuts the door firmly behind him before thrusting a hand down his pants. He grabs ahold of his dick and squeezes, he wants to sigh with relief but he knows any relief he finds will just be temporary. He fists his dick then jacks it a few times but as much as he wants to come, it’s still not enough. 

He feels empty and too full all at once. There’s still traces of his come in boxers from hastily dressing when Matty barged into this whole mess . Experimentally, he slicks his finger with it and presses it slowly into his hole, hissing with pleasure. He finally feels full until one finger isn’t enough and he’s nearly falling off the bed searching for the lube he tossed earlier. He pulls his finger out to drop lube on his fingers, fumbling and making a mess of himself but he can’t bring himself to care. The head of his dick is rubbing against his briefs, Conor jacking himself roughly with his other hand, but it’s still not enough to send him over the edge. Even though it’s only been a few seconds he can feel his hole tighten, desperate to be filled. He shoves two fingers into himself and cries out, it’s still not enough, God, why can’t his fingers be longer. 

Patric has long fingers. His dick twitches and he can’t help himself but thrust his fingers in harder, like he wants Patric to do it, searching for his prostate. Patric would hold him down and push in deep, maybe even get his whole fist inside Conor. He finds his prostate and angles his fingers as best he can and thrusts and finally his dick responds. 

He comes, thighs shaking, chest heaving with exertion. A twinge starts in his wrist and he knows that he should move his fingers, but he’s afraid to feel empty again, afraid to be this out of control. When he finally does and the aching feeling starts to creep in again, he resolves that he’s going to make Lundqvist’s life a living hell for as long he can skate. 

He’s lost track of time and the sound of Matt banging on the walls as he comes towards Conor’s door startles him. He hastily grabs for the tissues on the floor and cleans off every part of himself he can, hissing when he wipes over the head of his dick. The loud knocking on the door comes too soon and he ends up dropping the bottle of lube on the floor again. All he can do is kick it under the bed in desperation as Matt opens the door slowly. He sticks his head in, shielding his eyes, and asks, “Are you decent?”

Conor snorts out a laugh. Fucking goalies. Matt pushes the door aside and wrinkles his nose. Conor’s used to the smell by now but Patric follows in after Matt and Conor avoids his face, he’d rather not try to jump his teammate. There’s an awkward silence, ended when Matt elbows Patric in the side. 

“Oof, right.” Patric’s talking quickly, Conor doesn’t blame him, he knows firsthand how dangerous Matt’s elbows are. “So, Lundqvist is a dick with too much time on his hands.” The thanks to Matt, is unsaid, but Matt puffs out his chest anyway and Conor gives him a smile. Patric claps Matt on the arm and Matt makes a pained noise. Conor focuses on the flex of Patric’s arm and shifts slightly and feels squelch of lube and come. His heart thuds as his face reddens, praying they didn’t notice but knowing from Patric’s stutter that everyone knew what the sound was. Conor’d never be able to look at Patric again without wanting the earth to swallow him up on the spot. Patric would be good at swallowing – he shakes his head, he can’t think like that. He’s vaguely aware of Patric talking about elves, he thinks Lundqvist’s mom was an elf and that’ where he learned the magic to curse the orchids. 

“She’s an Älva and she taught him some of her spells. I really am sorry, Conor.” Patric does look sorry, but Conor eyes start to glaze over with want. The room is heating up again and the empty feeling comes roaring back, his body desperate to find a way to be full again. He jams his fingernails into the palm of his hand, fighting to maintain control.

“Am I going to die?” He feels like it, everything’s too intense, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. He still feels a little silly for asking the question. Matt’s still here and Matt wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Patric shakes his head quickly and Conor’s glad he didn’t laugh. 

“No, no, Conor.” He moves to take a step closer to Conor but Matt stops him with a hand at his elbow. “There’s a cure, I can make it, he gave me the recipe.” He spares a glance at Matt, who shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “It’ll take a little while though. There is a quicker way.” 

Conor nods for Patric to go on. “This is like a fever, but fevers can be broken.” 

“That’s enough.” Matt moves to open the door before Conor cries out for him to stop. Why isn’t Matt taking this seriously? Conor’s desperate. He shifts in the bed and can feel the blood rushing back into his dick. 

“How?” He croaks out. Patric makes another move toward him and this time Matt doesn’t stop him. 

“Sex. You can have sex with someone and it breaks it. It transfers through physical contact, so it lessens the individual effect. A couple hours of sex and it’s gone. It can be fun, actually.” 

Conor looks at him through watery eyes, tears spilling down on the sheets. No part of this is fun, is he out of his mind? Patric inches closer to the bed cautiously. It would be so easy to reach out and let Patric take charge. Patric could fix this. It’d be fun, he thinks, with Patric. He doesn’t want to do this alone anymore. He starts to move his hand out from under the covers and then freezes. Patric never picked him before, even when he made his way through all the rookies. Except for him. 

“The cure, please.”  
Patric’s expression doesn’t change. He just takes a step back and calls over his shoulder that he’ll be back as soon as he can. 

It takes approximately four and a half orgasms later for the knock at the door to come. Conor has four fingers in his ass and he groans thankfully into his pillow as he comes. He moves his head enough to yell “Come in!” and weakly tugs the blanket over his hips with his left hand and rocks on the fingers of his right still inside of him. 

Matt walks in cautiously. He coughs as he breathes in. “Buddy, you’re going to have to leave one hell of a tip for the maids.” 

Conor cocks an eyebrow and glares at him. He doesn’t care about the mess. He perks up when he sees the glass in Matt’s hand filled with a bright blue liquid, a curly party straw sticking out of it. 

“That was Rusty’s idea.” 

Conor removes his fingers as quick as he can manage, body protesting the soreness and his mind protesting the emptiness. Matt holds the drink in front of him and puts the straw to Conor’s lips and he sucks in greedily. He feels his head clear and the burning ache slowly fade away as he swallows the last drops. 

“Can we get dinner now?” Matt laughs and exhales loudly. He visibly relaxes when Conor sits up and takes the glass from his hands. 

“Sure, bud. We can get dinner now. We’ll even go to that sushi restaurant you like if you want.” 

Conor shifts and feels more than a twinge of discomfort. “Maybe we can order in?” He surveys the damage in his room, sheets and comforters stained and sticky with come, a whole box of tissues scrunched up and scattered across the floor. 

“Why don't you bunk with me tonight, Shearsy.” Matt says quietly. “We’ll get you a shower then get the guys over for dinner and a movie. How does that sound?”

It sounds fantastic. Matt helps him up, steadying his shaky legs and leads him into the shower. Satisfied that he can stand up on his own, Matt leaves, hopefully to order dinner. Conor washes quickly, relishing the warm spray that soothes his tired body. 

When he walks into Matt’s room Bryan and Tom are already there, sitting on the floor, and fighting over whether to watch Die Hard or Finding Nemo. 

“They’re German terrorists! We’re not watching it.” Tom tries to throw the case across the room but Bryan gives him a pinch that makes him squeal. Bryan grabs the case and holds it up victoriously. 

“Shearsy! You’re alive! Did you know your dick curse went to ol’ Tommy boy here? He practically begged me to suck his dick and now I don’t even get to pick the movie.” Tom sputters and pinches Bryan back. 

Conor smiles weakly as he takes the plate of food Matt offers him. Matt guides him to the bed and waits for Conor to climb onto a makeshift pillow throne. 

“We’re watching Finding Nemo.” Matt says, ignoring Bryan’s exaggerated groans.  
They’re quiet as the movie starts, only the sounds of scraping utensils on plates. Conor remembers Patric and can’t help himself and whispers for Matt’s attention. 

“Where’s Horny?” 

“I sent him home. He wanted to make sure there were no side effects before he left. But I thought some distance would do you good.” He pushes a blanket down with his foot when Bryan makes grabby hands at it. 

“Hey, Kuhni, why do you use both the knife and fork when you eat?” Bryan asks curiously. 

“So I can stab people that talk during Finding Nemo.” 

Conor smiles for real this time and sinks back into the pillows. It’s nice that some things will always be normal. 

//

Conor wasn't sure of many things but he was certain of this, Patric was avoiding him. 

Conor needed to say thank you. Every time he tried, cornering Patric in the weight room, the trainer’s room, hotel elevators, it was like Patric vanished in thin air. After a while, it just became harder to talk to him and easier to avoid the conversation altogether. They ate with different people during the day, hotel rooms on the opposite ends of the hallway, and the focused presence of Sidney between them during games. It went back to normal. Except- except for the fact that Patric still wouldn't speak to him. He was polite, cordial in front of teammates, and subtly directed Sid to lead the conversations on the bench. His eyes never met Conor’s; his words never sounded like they were meant for Conor’s ears. He and Patric were never that close but he can't help feeling that he's missing something, something intimate and important. 

The Capitals series is long over and the grind of the Lightning series is just starting when Patric slips his guard down. 

He corners him in the elevator. It's part of the charm of being small, he knows how to be quiet when he needs to be. 

Patric’s got his eyes closed in the corner and he doesn't open them when the elevator dips when Conor gets on. He presses the button for floor 15 and then the door close button, ignoring Lovejoy’s shout to hold the elevator. 

“I just wanted to say thank you.” Patric sucks in a breath. 

“You should be thanking Murrs.” His eyes are still stubbornly closed. 

Conor moved forward to stand in front of Patric, staring up at him. Patric seems defeated, scrubbing a hand through his beard. “I said thank you to him. Now I want to say thank you to you.” 

Patric’s eyes snap open. He meets Conor’s eyes for the first time in weeks. His forehead is creased and all Conor wants to do is to smooth it out. “Shearsy, I-” He shakes his head. “Conor, I wanted to, maybe you don’t remember but I wanted-” He trails off and it suddenly clicks for Conor. 

“You wanted to fuck me?” Patric ducks his head, what’s visible of his cheeks are a bright red. The elevator slows to a stop on the 11th floor and Conor jams the door closed button over the annoyed voice of the person waiting. “I remember everything. I remember that you said it only increased attraction, right?” Patric nods. “Right?” He prods again. 

“Yes.” He’s still not meeting Conor’s eyes and Conor’s sick of it. He leans up on tiptoes and kisses him firmly. Patric’s beard stings but in a good way, it grounds him, lets him know this is really happening. A few seconds pass before Patric lets out a harsh groan and kisses him back, biting on his lip and wrapping his arms possessively around Conor. 

The elevator dings and the door opens and Conor regretfully breaks the kiss. He’s breathing harshly and Patric is doing the same, eyes wide. Patric lowers his forehead to Conor’s and touches them briefly, lightly squeezing Conor’s biceps. Conor closes his eyes reflexively. 

“Later,” is all he says. A shiver goes up Conor’s spine and when he opens his eyes, Patric is gone.

//

It’s a familiar scene as the team whoops and cheers their way down the hallway to the locker room. Dumo heads to the speakers and blasts their victory song. They clap each other on the back and shake hands, each stripping off their gear and talking over each other in excitement. The mood of the room feels off and it takes a while for Conor to realize why. Patric, normally leading the celebration, is gone. 

Conor finally sees him in the hallway between the trainer’s room and theirs, cradling his left hand and holding his right hand out to Dana. He looks subdued, apologetic, even when Dana leaves with a small smile. 

“Horny! Get your ass in here!” Daley yells in particularly high spirits. 

He comes when called and smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He moves over to his stall and Sid engulfs him in a sweaty hug. “This guy, this fucking guy, tonight he was a warrior.” Sid leads the team in a series of whoops as they start to file out one by one. Patric sits down heavily in his stall and stares at the warrior’s helmet in his hands. 

Conor stares at him and waits, willing Patric to come his way with every fiber of his being. The Showtime cameras leave and the remaining sacrifices to the media are all huddled in a corner, still loudly celebrating the win, when Patric finally moves. Conor’s pulse quickens and he can’t figure out whether he should look away. Instead he keeps staring and he doesn’t think he’s imagining that Patric stands up a little straighter when he walks over to stand in front of Conor’s stall. 

“Later?” He asks softly. 

Conor nods. “Later.” He says decisively. He lowers his head and Patric slides the helmet on him, pushing it down so all Conor can see is the inside of the helmet. He tilts it backward and looks up at Patric, debating whether or not he should press his luck. He catches a few of the fingers on Patric’s free hand instead. 

“Everything okay?” He asks, and he can feel Patric’s body tense up minutely. 

“Why do you think something’s wrong?” 

“Your shirt is still on.” He replies matter of factly. It gets the smile he wanted, the skin around Patric’s eyes crinkling like they always do. Patric pushes the helmet down over his eyes again and Conor can’t help the giggle that escapes him. 

 

//

It’s the day after they win in Game 7 against the Lightning and there’s still a hum of excitement and adrenaline thrumming through his body. He putters around his room, picking up magazines and putting them down without really reading them. He watches the news but checks the weather on his phone because he wasn’t paying attention the first time. He’s in the shower when his music cuts out by his text tone. He curses and knocks over his shampoo bottle. 

_can i come over?_

_yes!_ He pauses over send and goes back to delete the exclamation point. That’s too eager. There’s only a five year age difference between them but he feels like a teenager again whenever he’s near Patric. 

_yes_

He kicks over the bottle of conditioner when there’s a knock at the door seconds later. He scrubs off as quickly as he can and decides to screw trying to change and answers the door in his towel. He knows what he looks like, flushed with his hair a mess. The shocked expression on Patric’s face is worth it. Patric looks him over and pushes his way into the room. The door slams behind him and Patric crashes their lips together. It’s a fierce and desperate kiss that leaves Conor breathless. Patric yanks off the towel and presses their bodies together. Conor groans when his dick rubs up against the rough fabric of Patric’s pants. He pants against Patric’s neck, open-mouthed, when Patric finally gets a hand on him. 

“Please.” He groans as blood fills his dick. He fumbles with the buttons on Patric’s shirt, clawing at them when he can’t get them unbuttoned. It’s been too long since he’s fucked properly and he’s desperate for it now, but Patric’s chuckling at his whines. 

“Easy, _käraste_. We have all day.” Conor doesn’t think he can last all day, at least not this time. He kisses Patric again, plaintively, and bites Patric’s bottom lip when he doesn’t immediately respond. Patric pushes Conor backwards and Conor lets himself be pushed, he likes the feeling. The back of his legs hit the bed first and he lets himself fall, Patric’s hand catching his head and lowering it gently down on the bed. Conor pushes himself up until his head hits his pillow. 

He takes a shaky breath and shivers as Patric looks over his naked body. Now that Patric’s in front of him he’s frozen, he can’t figure out what he wants to do first, what he wants Patric to do to him. Patric runs his hands over Conor’s legs and lightly traces his way up Conor’s body. He shifts as Patric’s shirt tickles his skin, gulps as Patric’s arousal sits heavy on his leg. Objectively, he knows that Patric is bigger than people realize but it’s surprising and comforting to have his bulk surround him. He angles his head up and Patric kisses him, dirty and slow. He lets himself get lost in the kiss for a minute before working his hands off Patric’s ass and back onto his shirt buttons, barely suppressing a sound of triumph when he finally works all the buttons open. Patric shrugs out of his shirt easily and tosses it. Conor arches up, his cock bobbing and smearing precum on Patric’s pants, which are annoyingly still on. He tugged at the waistband of his jeans only to have Patric grab his wrist and give it a gentle kiss. 

“What do you want?” Patric asks, his eyes dark. 

Scenarios flit through his mind, mostly from porn. He wants to come, he wants to be fucked, he wants to beg for Patric’s dick until he can’t think anymore. He doesn’t know how to say that though, he’s not sure he could put it into words yet. Instead, he reaches up and strokes Patric’s beard, thick and rough under his skin. 

“I want to feel you tomorrow.” Patric looks stunned for a second then smiles widely. 

“Turn over.” Conor scrambles to obey, almost accidentally elbowing Patric in the face as he goes face down into the pillow. Patric trails sucking kisses on his neck and down his back, Conor rutting into the bed. Patric pauses at his ass, kneading each cheek. He spreads his legs at Patric’s urging and is about to tell him to where to find the lube when he feels Patric’s beard against his ass. 

“Just tell me if you don’t like it, okay?” is all the warning he gets before Patric licks a stripe from his balls to his hole. 

_“Holy Shit,”_ His thoughts go blank for a second. He’s only ever seen that in porn. He never thought he’d ever have someone do it to him. Patric pauses and Conor nudges Patric’s back with his legs to spur him on. Conor silently thanks God that Patric takes the hint and dives back in, pulling Conor’s ass up higher and licking broad stripes across his hole. It feels like Patric’s everywhere, his beard scratching Conor’s soft skin, the perfect mix of pleasure and pain. 

He balls his fists up in the sheets and tries to push himself down on the bed again, desperately searching for friction. Patric’s hands trap him and he lets out a litany of swears as Patric’s tongue works his way inside of him. He can feel the scrape of Patric’s beard on his cheeks and relishes in the fact that any time he sits down tomorrow he’ll feel it. The insistent sucking noises sound obscene in the quiet of the room and Conor can’t wait any longer. He pushes back into Patric’s tongue and sneaks a hand around himself. He chants Patric’s name like a prayer and he comes with a groan, striping the sheets. Patric’s relentless, spreading Conor’s cheeks as much as he can and licking in until tears spring to Conor’s eyes. 

“Please.” He sobs, looking over his shoulder. He doesn’t know if he can take anymore but he knows that he doesn’t want Patric to stop. Patric’s tongue slow, until he licks lightly at Conor’s hole. Conor breathes in hitches, watching Patric swirl his finger in Conor’s come with fascination. He's wrecked and every touch makes him shiver. Patric smooths the mess out over his skin and draws a pattern over and over. It's a 72, he realizes suddenly. It feels meaningful, and even though it's gone with a swipe of Patric’s finger. It still feels like it's there, he can feel it like it's burning on his skin. It’s the hottest thing to ever happen to him. 

His thighs tense and he forces himself to relax when Patric moved his finger to his hole, slowly working the tip of his finger into Conor. He moans and shifts into Patric’s touch reflexively. He wants everything Patric will give him and he’s seized by a desperate fear that he’ll never get to have Patric like this again. He groans and tries to catalogue the feel of Patric’s finger inside of him, the gentle kisses Patric carelessly trails across his skin. One finger becomes two, then three as Patric stops teasing him and opens him up efficiently. 

Patric looks up at him, his eyes wide and his face ruddy, and takes his fingers out and wipes them on the bedspread. He kisses Conor everywhere he can reach without moving, his beard marking Conor's skin and with every scratch he feels a little more claimed. 

“Condoms are in the drawer.” He jerks his head at the nightstand in an answer to Patrics unasked question. Sweat glistens off Patric as the sun filtering through the shades catches him and Conor stares unflinchingly. He watches the shiver work its way down Patric’s body as he rolls on a condom and awkwardly makes him way back to the bed. 

“Are you sure?” 

Conor can’t bring himself to answer the question, the words too big and too full of meaning. He reaches for Patric instead, pulling him into a sloppy kiss. He’s flushed and panting when they pull apart, precome smeared across Patric’s ribs. He flops his head back when Patric slides inside of him, claiming another part of Conor’s body half-inch by half-inch. Patric’s surprisingly gentle in his movements, bracing an arm by Conor’s head and holding his weight off Conor. Conor spreads his legs wide and hooks them around Patric instinctively, trying and failing to urge him down. Patric sinks slowly, shifting more weight onto Conor. 

“I’m not going to break, come on.” He grunts when Patric thrusts inside of him roughly, like a challenge. He’s never been one to turn down a challenge. He squeezes minutely around Patric, clenching tightly when Patric’s buried as deeply as he can. 

“Jesus, fuck,-” Is all the coherency Patric can muster as he stills and breathes heavily. “Are you trying to kill me?” Conor mouths at Patric’s arm instead of answering, wishing it was Patric’s fingers shoved in his mouth. 

Patric stops teasing then, fucking into him quickly. He runs his hands anywhere he can reach, scratching, pulling, anything to make Patric go faster. He can feel his body tighten, that urge to press his feet down on the bed and do anything to come is insistent in the back of his mind. It's too soon and it's too far away all at once. Patric gets a hand around Conor as his own thrusts go erratic, whispering a litany of words in Conor’s ear that he can’t understand but he understands the feeling behind them and it feels like enough. 

He comes, striping Patric’s stomach, making a mess between them. Patric fucks in deep then shudders as he lets himself fall on Conor, unable to hold himself up any longer. He relishes the warmth within him, knowing it won’t stay, unable to hold back his noise of complaint as Patric gathers himself and pulls out slowly. He closes his eyes and doesn’t move, not even when he feels the bed dip as Patric gets up and throws the condom in the trash. 

He returns with a warm washcloth and wipes away the come but Conor doesn’t know if he’ll ever forget that feeling, hopes he doesn’t. Patric grabs the comforter, forgotten on the floor, and pulls Conor into his arms. 

"You don't want to get room service or something?" Is what he asks, when what he wants to ask if he's going to stay. 

"Later." He says and pulls Conor closer. Conor relaxes. Later works.

**Author's Note:**

> It occurred to me that people might find the tweet Kühnhackl reads odd, but he did actually like it. -->http://imgur.com/xaIrL9L


End file.
